


tonight the super trouper lights are gonna find me

by coffee_music_books



Series: thank you for the music [2]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F, Nicole comes into the story kinda late, Pop Star AU, but i promise it's worth the wait, child prodigy!Waverly, hey that rhymed!, performer!Waverly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10679601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_music_books/pseuds/coffee_music_books
Summary: You were three years old when you first touched the keys of a piano.ORWaverly is an international star who just wants a normal life, and Nicole is a disbelieving casual fan who falls head-over-heels in love.





	tonight the super trouper lights are gonna find me

**Author's Note:**

> fic inspired by Super Trouper from Mamma Mia as performed by Meryl Streep (because come on)
> 
> A/N - historically, the Earp family was Jewish. So that is referenced here in passing.

You were three years old when you first touched the keys of a piano. Papa had brought you, Wynonna, and Willa with him when he went to get drinks with Uncle Curtis. Mama wasn't feeling good, and Papa didn't want to stay home. You toddled across the empty bar--you learn later that it's alarming to be sitting down for beers at eleven AM--and hoisted yourself onto the bench. Wynonna pressed a bunch of the keys and they made a pretty tinkling sound, but when she pushed a few down at the same time, they made a fowl noise. You pressed three keys down at once and it was a beautiful melody. You tried again, and again, counting out the keys. You were too young for math, and you'd never read music before, but you could sense the pattern in the keys after a few minutes of tapping on them.

 

 _Prodigy_ , they labeled you.  _Once in a generation_. And suddenly you were getting all of this attention. Cameras and lights were thrust in your face, your long hair being yanked back. You were forced into dresses Mama usually saves for holidays--yellow on Rosh Hashana, dark navy on Yom Kippur, pink on Passover for spring. They're itchy and uncomfortable, and you're miserable very quickly.

 

You're five before they realize that you can sing, too. You taught yourself Twinkle Twinkle Little Star when you were four, but you never sang along before. Wynonna would sing with you while you played, but Wynonna is at soccer practice and you thought you were alone. You hear a gasp from the doorway of the bar, which hasn't opened just yet, and Gus is standing there watching you, one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. "Beautiful," she's gasping, looking at you like you're some sort of angel. "Just beautiful. Can you do it again, Waverly, honey?" 

 

Papa finds you a voice teacher and piano teacher and you're not allowed to play sports because you could hurt your "musical fingers," Papa says, and you don't get to have playdates because you're so busy practicing. 

 

When you're nine, you get bored of the piano. Shorty lets you play with his old acoustic guitar and you've taught yourself how to play by ear within a week. "Amazing," Shorty mumbles, watching you manipulate the strings. He takes you up into the loft above the bar, and you see he has tons of instruments lying around. You start to visit Shorty after school more often, blowing off piano lessons and voice lessons to teach yourself the drums and harmonica and violin and bass. You pick up each instrument quickly, and by your tenth birthday, you play seven of them better than Shorty can.

 

When you're fifteen you get discovered. Shorty pays you a few dollars an hour to play and sing at the bar on the weekends, and you still love music. You're singing a song you'd written yourself when a man in a grey suit walks up to you and hands you a business card. He says you have  _real talent_ and there's  _room in the market for someone with a face like that_ , and you feel his eyes on your body, still skinny and short, but your chest is filling out and your waist is small. You feel dirty when he walks away, and you take three showers that night after giving the business card to Papa.

 

A few months later, Papa piles the whole family into the truck and drives a few hours to the big city. They put you in a booth with dark foam all over the walls and a single microphone in the middle. They tell you to play and sing the songs you wrote, pick the best ten songs, and  _wow us_. 

 

And suddenly you have a debut album.

 

And then there are tours and concerts and festivals and press. Your outfits are small and glittery and you're not allowed to eat junk food or drink soda anymore. One album becomes two become five, and there are awards and plaques and platinum records in the homestead, which Papa gets renovated and then there's air conditioning and plumbing and new carpets. Willa and Wynonna are off at college and you don't see them, but Wynonna still calls and visits when she can. She complains sometimes--usually when she's drunk--that most people at school only want to talk to her because she's your sister. After a while, Willa stops calling altogether.

 

You have a bodyguard, Dolls. Everything about him screams _intense_ and  _former military_. He rarely smiles, but he lets you get away with a lot. Sometimes, he sneaks you milkshakes and tiny hotel-minibar bottles of alcohol. You think of him as your silver lining. 

 

You leave Purgatory and tour for a year and then spend a month on vacation on some obscure Caribbean island, and then you're doing press for another album and then a tour and then vacation. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

You don't return to Purgatory again until just after your twenty-first birthday. Wynonna takes you to Shorty's to celebrate. It's such a small town that the people either don't recognize you two or simply don't care, and you're thankful for the blessed disinterest in your life. It's later in the evening and you're feeling dizzy and light and happy from the alcohol and atmosphere. You sit behind the old familiar piano and begin to play an old favorite.

 

You can play this song so well you don't even have to look at the keys, so you scan the room. There's a girl--no, a  _woman_ \--across the bar who doesn't stop looking at you once. When the song is done and the tinkling of the keys fades away, she's smiling, and she's  _still_ staring at you. You furrow your brows. "What's up?" Wynonna asks, stumbling towards you from the bar. 

 

"There's a girl by the bar who won't stop looking at me." You shrug. "Maybe she recognizes me. I knew this night was too good to be true."

 

Wynonna pouts in sympathy. "Just one isn't that bad, is it?" she asks, nudging your shoulder with her fist.

 

"Yeah, I guess. I was just liking that I had music as a hobby again for a little while, instead of being the family meal ticket again." Wynonna flicks you in the ear a that, snorting and walking back to the bar to refill her glass.

 

Someone clears their throat behind you, and when you turn to face them, the room spins. Your eyes adjust and you see it's that same girl from over by the bar. "When did you move?" you ask stupidly.

 

She grins and tucks her chin to her chest. You see that she's wearing a police uniform, and when she smiles her cheeks dimple. You think she has a pretty smile. "I just wanted to say you have a really pretty voice."

 

You feel your cheeks flush, which is weird since you hear that all the time. You like the way she says it better, though, slowly and drawn out in her accent. "Thanks" you mumble.

 

"I'm Nicole," she says, offering her hand. "And I was wondering if I could buy you a drink."

 

"Oh, uh-" you stumble and pause. "I'm Waverly."

 

Her brow furrows. "Waverly, like that famous singer?"

 

You smile, but you think it looks more like a grimace. "The one and only."

 

She laughs, loud and shocked. "Wow, and I'm not even drunk. I totally didn't know that was you. I'm a fan of your work."

 

You try to force another smile and you shrug. "Thank you." Your voice is flat. Robotic.

 

"I'd still like to buy you that drink." Her voice is low and careful, as though she could possibly know what you're thinking.

 

"I'm not sure how my publicist would feel about me getting even more drunk with a fan than I already did with my sister." Wynonna is dancing across the bar, though there's no music playing. You smile and shake your head at her. Classic Wynonna.

 

Nicole shrugs and reaches her hand to you again. "Water then." Like it's as simple as that. And why shouldn't it be? You nod and take her hand. Her skin is warm and calloused, rough against your own, and you think she must feel the callouses on your fingertips from playing the guitar.

 

Nicole, you learn, is a police officer from one of the neighboring towns that was just transferred to Purgatory. She has two little brothers, twins. She likes to read, and she rides a motorcycle. She has a pretty laugh and you like the sound of her voice, and her eyes are big and bright and always trained on you. You've always know you were pretty enough to get by in Hollywood, but she makes you feel more beautiful than even performing ever has. She traces the callouses on your hands from playing all of your instruments and your whole body tingles.

 

You spend the rest of that summer having secret rendezvous with Nicole. At Shorty's, at the station, in the old barn on the homestead. Mama and Papa pay you little mind as long as you practice and write music sometimes, and Wynonna spends most of her time either drunk or recovering from a hangover or sleeping one of them off. Nicole is cheerful and kind and beautiful, and she's the first person in your life who doesn't ask you to perform. She's the only person in your life you think you'd actually  _enjoy_ performing for.

 

In October, you're asked to return to the road to promote your next album, which you recorded back in the spring, and you're beyond reluctant to say goodbye to Nicole. She holds you and strokes your hair, your arms, your back as you cry through your goodbye. "It's not 'goodbye,'" she says, "it's 'see you soon.'"

 

You look up at her through your eyelashes and she brushes a tear away from your cheek. "I'll see you soon, then." She nods and smiles.

 

You perform the first single from the album on a few TV shows, even a couple of music festivals. The turnouts are huge, as always, tens of thousands of people lining up to watch you perform. You're constantly surrounded by people, but without Nicole, you've never felt more lonely. Wynonna notices the change in your attitude, the emptiness of your smile and the weight of the bags under your eyes, but she says nothing. 

 

You return to Purgatory as the snow begins to melt and the early signs of spring are settling in. The first thing you do is run to the police station. But when you get there, there's no sign of Nicole. "Excuse me," you say to the desk sergeant, "do you know where Officer Nicole Haught is?"

 

She looks at you through narrowed eyes as though she's trying to place where she knows you from, and your fingers tap against the table impatiently. You see her roll her eyes. "She doesn't work here anymore. You can try her apartment."

 

You're confused, but instead of risking being recognized, you bolt from the station. Dolls is waiting for you outside. "Waverly, there's something you should know."

 

"Can it wait, Dolls?" you ask, confused and concerned. Nicole never mentioned getting fired or quitting. You think she might've been transferred, or worse, and you begin to get frantic.

 

"Not really," he says, arms crossed and voice loud and firm. You stop and face him, squinting against the sunlight. "Your manager has ordered that you have a larger security detail for the next tour, since it's international." You nod, wondering why this is so urgent. "You need to come home right away and meet your new security guard."

 

You huff and cross your arms. "Really? Right now?" You sound like a petulant child, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Dolls nods, and he's wearing his  _no nonsense or discussions_ face, so you sigh and follow him to the car.

 

You walk into the homestead and collapse on the couch, frustrated and antsy. Dolls follows you into the living room patiently. Wynonna is already sprawled across an armchair when you walk in. "What crawled up your ass and died?" You roll your eyes.

 

"I have to meet a new security guard for the international tour," you groan. "Though I'm not sure why it can't wait until  _after_ I see my girlfriend for the first time in  _months_." You get louder and whinier as you complain, and Dolls patiently ignores you. He checks his cell phone once and then leaves the room. You hear the front door of the homestead open and close, and two sets of boots clunking in the front of the house. You stay on the couch, not minding your rudeness. You showed up against your will; you're sure as hell not going to make it easy on them.

 

"So, Waverly," Dolls calls as he walks back into the living room. "Your entourage for this tour will be myself-" he pauses and points to Wynonna, "your sister." Wynonna nods and winks at you. You didn't know she was coming on tour, and though you're in a sour mood, you smile at that. "Your usual crew and publicity team." You nod. Not a surprise. "And your new body guard." Dolls points to the entryway between the foyer and the living room.

 

You look over and see Nicole walking into the room. She's wearing a pair of jeans and a grey sweater, and she looks more beautiful than you remembered. You feel your smile and hear your gasping laugh and she opens her arms for you. You leap off the couch and jump into her, wrapping your whole body around her torso and legs around her waist. You're both laughing. "Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, voice elated and smile wide.

 

Nicole smiles, warm and a little bit mischievous. "At first I wasn't sure. Then I wanted it to be a surprise. Mostly I just wanted to see that happy smile on your face." She winks. "All about me."

 

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. "Don't let it go to your head." You lean back in her arms to look at her face properly. She's wearing her best smile and gazing at you. "I missed you," you say softly. She smiles harder, her dimples cratering more deeply into her cheeks. She looks radiant smiling at you this way.

 

"I missed you too, baby" she says. You feel warm all over. When she kisses you, you sigh, and you feel a firm tap on the back as Wynonna tosses a throw pillow at you.

 

"The whole tour is going to be like this, isn't it?" she teases. She adds a  _blech_ for good measure.

 

You think you see Dolls grin. 

 

The tour begins in June and you, Dolls, Wynonna, and Nicole--she's  _here_ , you're constantly reminding yourself--fly out to London with the rest of your crew. You're on a private airplane and you've insisted on a bedroom on the plane.  _Motion sickness_ , you claimed,  _from flying_. Wynonna and Dolls both scoffed. 

 

You and Nicole have been making out like teenagers. Her button up shirt is open and her braid has been released, and your shirt has been tossed somewhere on the floor. She's stroking your face and arms and sides as if you don't exist. "You know," you say, voice light with your happiness. "This is the first tour I'm actually excited about."

 

She smiles at you and rests her chin agains your chest. "And why's that?" Her voice is teasing but happy. 

 

"Well," you begin. Your voice has lowered and gotten husky, and you narrow your eyes. "I've always wondered when I get a harem. And I want to have sex in a bunch of different countries." Your smile is wicked as you watch the shock and laughter bloom across her face. She tickles your side and you squirm away from her fingers.

 

"That can be arranged," she says. "If you behave." Her smile is so deliciously wicked that you blush.

 

You're preparing for your first show the next night. For the first time in a long time your hands are shaking and there are butterflies in your stomach. Fifty-thousand people is a lot, but it's hardly the first time you've performed for such a big audience. You're rotating a guitar pick between your fingers. Fifty-thousand people don't scare you. You only care about the one.

 

When you step on stage, you feel her eyes on you the entire time, and the blinding lights don't feel stifling. You smile bright like the sun, open your mouth, and begin to sing. 

 

 


End file.
